The last stop

My laptop buzzes to life with a slight crunch. This column is due in 20 minutes and I am currently on the phone with my mother explaining how difficult it has become to write it. I am hoping deep down that she’ll say something like “Oh, that’s ok, Zac. We’ll just run an old one. It’ll be fine. Don’t worry about it.”

But she doesn’t.

“I had a big plan,” I tell her. “To take the L train out to the last stop in Brooklyn and walk around out there. Grab some food maybe, talk to some people?just check out this neighborhood that has a strange importance in my life.” I ride the L-train every day, but I’ve never been all the way out there. I was going to call it ‘The Last Stop.’”

“Why didn’t you?” she asks.

“I was working all weekend.”

“Ah,” she says. “Can you write about what you were working on?”

I would if I could, I explain to her, but last weekend I was finishing an independent pilot.

“The producers are trying to sell it next week in LA. It’s a pretty good concept and they made me sign a non-disclosure agreement. But, it would probably be a pretty funny column if I could write it. It’s a comedy.”

My mom chuckles.

But the truth is my life is starting to settle into more of a routine and I wonder how interesting another column about something that I’m editing would be.

“Besides,” I say, “I’ve basically written that one before.”

“Well, you could write about why you are having trouble writing.” The classic writers block solution and one that faithful readers of this column will recall I’ve implored a few times in the past.

“I’ve written that one before, twice, I think,” I say.

Another truth is that you, dear reader, are starting to terrify me.

I used to think of writing this as an anonymous thing. I have always lived out of the circulation area and rarely saw or interacted with you. Writing this was something that I attached to my home life. Something I thought about when I ran into you at home or when my parents saw you around the neighborhood and related to me that you enjoyed reading this.

I felt free to talk about my life in a way I wouldn’t with the people who were actually involved in it. I could capture the essence of something that happened to me, combine characters and details, to give my personal perspective on a given situation.

The world I lived in and the world I wrote about were connected, yet separated.

Tierney Cole was the first main leak in the system. The 21 year-old Narrowsburg native and childhood friend blew my cover by moving to the city and becoming a direct link between you and me. Now, I feel a little bit like Valerie Plame.

And I wonder if it was a relief for the ex-CIA agent to be found out. She’s written a book about her experiences, although it is heavily censored by her former bosses. I imagine that maybe it felt good for her to give up her segmented, compartmentalized life.

And don’t worry, dear reader, you and I aren’t finished. In fact, we are closer now than ever before, and your presence, like pressure on a wound, is invaluable to me.

And don’t worry either, Tierney. I won’t tell anyone about your life in the city.

- Zachary Stuart-Pontier